Valour

by John Gwynne

  Maquin shoved Fidele behind him, saw Lykos struggling to rise, Deinon standing over a motionless Javed while Orgull started to drag himself upright from behind a bench. Deinon stepped over Javed’s body and sank his sword into Orgull’s chest.

  Maquin screamed a wordless howl, launching himself through the air and colliding with Deinon, his sword puncturing the Vin Thalun’s back, its tip bursting out of the killer’s chest. His friend was still breathing, his chest rising in short, ragged bursts. Blood and froth bubbled at his mouth. Maquin cradled his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, my brother. I’m sorry, I was too slow.’ Maquin’s vision blurred, tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping from his nose.

  Orgull’s eyes fixed on him. His mouth moved but only a bubbling hiss came out. He reached for Maquin’s hand and squeezed it, then gave out a long, fading breath.

  Time dissolved for Maquin, becoming an arbitrary thing, moments or days passing – he did not know. He felt a hand on his shoulder pulling the world back into focus. Fidele.

  The battle still raged around them, though it had moved further away. Lykos was nowhere to be seen, only a bloody handprint on the ground. Vin Thalun were everywhere, though, fighting the crowd, as well as warriors in the black and white of the eagle-guard here and there.

  ‘Where is he?’ Fidele gasped. Terror and loathing swept her face. ‘He still lives,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ She did not look as if she wanted to be found by Lykos. ‘Best get you out of here,’ Maquin said. He pulled on Orgull’s axe and placed it on his friend’s chest, fixing it in his grip.

  ‘Take that across the bridge of swords with you. And walk tall, brother. You’ve earned it.’

  Then he was leading Fidele by the hand, being swept by the crowd as they flowed towards the exits, out into the meadow. Once there, Maquin saw the extent of the uprising that was taking place. Nowhere was safe, battle spreading across the field. More Vin Thalun were pouring from the gates of Jerolin, others from the lake town, still more boats rowing towards shore from the ships on the lake. Maquin paused and sucked in a great lungful of air.

  Free air. I am free, a slave no longer. The thought made him dizzy. He grinned fiercely, then turned and led Fidele away, the two of them heading towards the trees that bordered the meadow.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN

  CAMLIN

  Camlin stared at Halion, then at the red gash across his shoulder. A handful of warriors stood with them, men Rath had entrusted to escort Roisin and Lorcan.

  Quinn’s blade was poisoned. I saw what it did to the man he fought. At the very least it’s going to put him on his back, and soon. At worst it may kill him.

  ‘Get back to the ship,’ Camlin said. They looked along the quay. Lorcan was sprawled unconscious where Quinn had dropped him; beyond the lad the last of Quinn’s men were still fighting, separating Camlin from his comrades. He glimpsed Baird and Marrock. He heard his friend call his name.

  The drumming of hooves grew. Conall and his men were reaching the beach, galloping hard, sand spraying.

  ‘You go, Cam, get Lorcan back to the ship, take a few from here to finish Quinn’s men. The rest of us will stay and hold Con a while, give you a chance to get away.’ Halion looked at the men with him, each one nodding.

  ‘Don’t think I’ll be leaving you in a fix like this,’ Camlin said, reaching into his quiver and grabbing a fistful of arrows. One by one he stabbed them into the soft timber of the quay.

  A tremor shook Halion and he swayed, resting his sword-point against the floor, leaning on it.

  ‘Quinn’s blade was poisoned; it may just have been a drug, a sedative that may pass. If not . . .’ Camlin shrugged. ‘Either way you’re no good here – go back to the ship.’

  ‘I’ll not run from Conall. He’ll never let me forget it.’ Halion attempted a smile.

  Camlin just stared at him.

  ‘I need to look him in the eye,’ Halion said. ‘He’s my brother, and there’s good in him yet.’

  ‘If there is he’s buried it good ‘n’ deep.’

  ‘I have to try.’

  Camlin shrugged. ‘You won’t have long to wait.’

  Conall was only a few hundred paces away now, galloping along the beach, at least a hundred warriors trailing behind him. Halion shuffled closer to the stairs that led down from the quay to the beach, the warriors with him spreading in a half-circle.

  Only ten or twelve steps, but it’s a good place to hold them, anyway. Camlin plucked an arrow from the timber, nocked it and drew it back to his ear.

  Chop off the head, kill the body. He aimed for Conall’s chest, held his breath and released.

  Conall’s horse dipped down a ridge in the sand, the arrow flying high, taking someone behind in the throat. The warrior was hurled backwards over his saddle in a spray of blood.

  Damn.

  Conall was less than two hundred paces away now, the sound of his approach drowning out the sea and sounds of battle along the quay. Camlin reached for another arrow, went through the same automatic ritual, centring the arrowhead on Conall’s chest again, holding his breath, releasing.

  This time Conall rode up a sandbank, the arrow sinking with a wet slap into his horse’s chest. It screamed, reared and toppled backwards in an explosion of sand.

  Hope it crushed him. Camlin reached for another arrow, drew it back, held his breath, released. This time it punched through a warrior’s cuirass and flung him from his saddle. Then warriors were at the quay, yanking on reins, jumping from saddles, drawing swords, running at the steps. The first one climbing up got Halion’s sword in the neck, a blow that almost severed the man’s head. Halion put a boot on the man’s shoulder and pushed, sending him flying back into those below.

  Camlin fired an arrow into the milling warriors, drew and fired again.

  It’s like fish in a barrel.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halion sway, men either side of him reaching out to steady him.

  He glanced back towards the ship, saw Marrock frantically fighting, trying to cut through the warriors that barred the way.

  More men were climbing the stairs now, trying by force of numbers to push through. There was a lot of sword swinging and screaming, men or parts of men falling back into the crowd gathering at the bottom of the steps. Others were spreading either side, jumping to hang on the timber and pull themselves up. Halion’s men chopped at fingers, stamped on hands.

  Halion stabbed a man through the chest. The dead man toppled backwards, Halion pulling on his sword. For a moment his strength seemed to leave him and he stumbled, then fell off the quay. Some of his comrades leaped after him, hacking wildly. Camlin drew and fired, drew and fired, the consistency of his shots forcing warriors to retreat. Then he saw Halion, standing, swinging his sword in two-handed blows, a few men about him, fanning out from the steps. Others jumped down from the quay, until a group of five or six stood about Halion. Their attackers hung back, gathering their courage for a final rush, then Conall forced his way through them.

  Third time lucky, thought Camlin, nocking another arrow and taking aim.

  I’ve got you now.

  A force slammed into Camlin’s left shoulder, spinning him, sending his arrow skittering away. He staggered, almost fell, looked at his shoulder.

  An arrow shaft protruded from it. As if brought on by the sight of it, pain suddenly bloomed, radiating outwards in great waves. He looked up, working out the direction of the arrow’s flight. Up the slope before the quay, onto the hill. A figure stood at its top, part sliding down the slope, a bow in one hand.

  Braith.

  ‘Good t’see you, Cam, you traitorous runt.’

  ‘Always knew you couldn’t shoot an arrow worth a damn,’ Camlin shouted.

  ‘Be fair now – I’m sliding down a mountain.’

  Camlin lifted an arrow and tried to draw his bow but pain spiked in his shoulder, black dots dancing before his eyes. He dropped his bow and drew his sword inst
ead. Dimly he was aware of combat below him, on the sand. He shot a quick glance, saw Conall trading blows with one of Halion’s men, Halion himself standing before the steps, hacking someone down.

  Braith was halfway down now. Camlin was already moving forwards; he knew better than to let Braith get his balance, the best swordsman he’d seen in the Darkwood in a score of years, the man who’d bested Rhagor, battlechief of Ardan.

  And now I’m crossing swords with him, and me with an arrow in my shoulder. Not the best odds.

  Their swords met in a harsh percussion of blows, Braith pressing forwards, an overwhelming force, six blows, ten, twelve, his attack not faltering. Camlin retreated, pain shooting in spasms from his injured shoulder as he twisted and turned, using everything he knew to keep himself alive a few heartbeats longer. He tried to push forwards, get inside Braith’s guard, but Braith just smiled at him – that knowing smile – stepped in to meet him and grabbed the arrow shaft in Camlin’s shoulder, twisting it.

  Camlin screamed, almost fainted, lost the grip on his sword and heard it clatter to the ground. Braith gave him a scornful shove, sending him stumbling backwards. A handspan from him was Lorcan, Roisin’s lad. He groaned and stirred, his eyelids fluttering. Something else was between them, a knife, stuck in the timber.

  Quinn’s knife. Poisoned.

  ‘Get up, Cam. At least die on your feet, not grovelling on your arse.’

  With an act of will more than muscle Camlin lunged for the knife, grabbed its hilt, wrenched it from the timber and threw it at Braith, aimed straight at his heart.

  The woodsman was quick, his sword moving on a reflex. Camlin heard the sound of metal connecting, the knife deflected.

  It’s over. He closed his eyes a moment, tried to struggle to his feet, but only got one knee under him.

  Braith strode towards him, then Camlin saw the knife hilt sticking from the woodsman’s shoulder.

  ‘Take more’n that t’stop me,’ Braith said. He gripped the knife and pulled it out, threw it into the sea, then levelled his sword at Camlin.

  ‘Any last words?’ Braith said.

  ‘Rot in hell.’

  ‘Told you to stick with me, didn’t I, Cam?’

  ‘You did. Told me a lot of other things, too, most of ’em lies.’

  Braith paused, a ripple passing through his body.

  It’s affecting him already, quicker than Halion – because the wound was so deep? Halion’s wound was only a scratch. Camlin climbed to his feet and took a step backwards.

  ‘Not feeling so good?’ he asked Braith.

  ‘What?’ Braith blinked and shook his head, his eyes becoming unfocused.

  Camlin darted forwards, stooping to pick up his sword. Braith lunged at him, the blow going wide. Camlin struck at Braith then, but the woodsman seemed to rally, his eyes sharpening, and they traded blows, Camlin steadily retreating towards the steps. Even poisoned, Braith was a better swordsman than he was. They slammed in close, Braith scoring a gash along Camlin’s ribs that burned like a line of fire. Camlin managed to punch Braith in the gut and step away, then Braith swayed again, his sword-point wavering. Camlin smashed his own sword down, knocking Braith’s blade from his grip. The woodsman just stared at him, confused. Camlin swung hard, with all his strength, his blade biting into Braith’s neck. There was a spray of blood and Braith toppled backwards, off the quay into the lapping waves below.

  For a moment Camlin just stood there, not quite believing he was still alive. Halion.

  He turned to see Halion on his knees, leaning on his sword.

  How is he still conscious?

  He was circled by a ring of the dead, beyond them a crowd of warriors. Conall stood before them.

  ‘Give it up, Hal. You’ve lost.’

  With an effort that set his limbs quivering, Halion climbed to his feet. Camlin could hear his laboured breathing.

  ‘Come back to me, Con. Be the man you were – my brother. Not this oathbreaker, obsessed with what? Yourself? Revenge?’

  Conall sneered. ‘I was pathetic – your puppet. No longer. I’ve risen far without your help. Evnis was right: it was you who has always kept me down. Now get out of my way. I’m wanting a chat with young Lorcan.’

  ‘Con, listen to yourself. I know you – you’re better than this. Please . . .’

  Conall hesitated, staring at Halion, a softness creeping into his eyes. He blinked, then a cold expression passed across his face. He took a step forwards and Halion raised his sword, the tip hovering in front of Conall’s chest. Conall laughed.

  ‘If you’ll not see reason, Con, I’ll have to stop you another way.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Hal. Look at you, you can hardly stand.’

  ‘I’d rather stand and die than see you become the thing we’ve both hated.’

  ‘Careful what you wish for, brother.’

  Halion swung his blade; Conall, parrying, swept it away and down, Halion’s sword-point digging into the sand. Halion staggered forwards a pace, then punched Conall in the face.

  The warrior stumbled back, wiped blood from his mouth.

  ‘I’ll not warn you again, Hal. Get out of my way.’

  Footsteps drummed behind Camlin, a handful of warriors running along the quay, Marrock at their head. Quinn’s men are all dead, then.

  Conall saw them too.

  Halion staggered back against the steps, one hand reaching out to grip them, holding him upright.

  ‘You’ll not be climbing these stairs while I draw breath,’ Halion said. ‘I swore an oath.’

  ‘This is madness. Out of my way.’ Conall strode forwards and Halion swung his blade again. Conall blocked and lunged, punching his sword hilt into Halion’s face.

  Conall froze, looked shocked, surprised at what he had done.

  Halion slumped to the ground, motionless before the steps.

  ‘Get him out of my way,’ Conall said.

  Warriors rushed forwards and dragged Halion’s body away, laying him out in the sand. Conall climbed the steps, others following.

  ‘Help me.’ Camlin heard a voice – Lorcan, trying to stand.

  Camlin retrieved his bow and put an arm under Lorcan, helped him upright and together they staggered along the quay. Men reached them – Marrock and Baird.

  ‘Halion?’ Marrock hissed.

  ‘Back there. Conall has him.’ He saw the look in Marrock’s eye. ‘It’s too late – there’s no saving him. Too many of Conall’s men.’

  ‘Drop the boy,’ a voice cried – Conall, powering along the quay.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Marrock snarled, shoving Camlin into Baird’s arms.

  The scar-faced warrior grabbed Camlin and Lorcan and half dragged them back along the quay.

  Boots thudded behind, warriors sprinting after them. Camlin heard the clash of weapons as he reached the ship; the boarding ramp was already pulled up. Baird hoisted the still-groggy Lorcan onto his shoulder and jumped across, then Camlin was being heaved over, Vonn grasping his arm and pulling him aboard.

  A deep voice was shouting orders, poles pushing the ship away from the quay, oars splashing into the water and pulling.

  ‘Halion? Where is Halion?’ It was Edana, holding his face in her hands, almost yelling.

  ‘Conall has him,’ Camlin breathed.

  Horror swept Edana’s face. ‘And Marrock? Where is Marrock?’

  Camlin didn’t answer, just stared back down the quay as the ship moved away. A crush of men was gathered a way back, shouts drifting across to the ship. A man screamed and toppled into the water.

  Marrock held them off. Gave us time.

  Then Conall was marching clear, dragging a man with him: Marrock, battered and bleeding.

  ‘Give me Lorcan,’ Conall yelled across the waves.

  ‘Never,’ Roisin screeched at him.

  Conall pulled Marrock close, putting a knife blade to his throat.

  ‘Edana, is that you, with your pretty fair hair? Bring me Lorcan. I’ll trade you.’<
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  Edana did not answer, but Camlin saw her eyes darting about the ship, weighing the odds.

  Only me ’n’ Vonn with you for sure, probably Baird and a few others loyal to Eremon. The rest by far are Roisin’s men. Nearly two score of them. He saw by Edana’s face that she’d come to the same conclusion.

  ‘Last chance,’ Conall yelled, his voice fainter. ‘Marrock’s your only kin. And I like him. Don’t make me kill him.’

  ‘Camlin, put an arrow in Conall’s eye,’ Edana hissed fiercely.

  Camlin looked at the arrow shaft sprouting from his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve a hole in my shoulder, can’t draw a bow worth a damn.’ He grimaced. I’m sorry, Marrock. You’ve been a good friend to me. The first. He glared balefully at Conall.

  ‘This is on your head,’ Conall cried. He drew his knife across Marrock’s throat and let him topple into the waves.

  Edana screamed.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

  CORBAN

  Corban ran through the corridors of Murias, Fech and Craf fluttering ahead, staying just within sight.

  They had encountered no one, the halls seemingly abandoned.

  Everyone that lives in this place is fighting for it now.

  The stairwell they were climbing spilt out into a chamber, a single fire-pit flickering near its centre. Fech led them unerringly towards an archway on the far side. They were almost there when shouting broke out from behind. Corban spun around, saw giants appearing from another opening – a dozen, perhaps more. At their head stood a white-haired giant, blood caking his face. He held a war-hammer, the entirety of his muscled arms a swirl of tattooed thorns. He saw Corban and his companions and bellowed a battle-cry, his comrades echoing him. They began running towards them.

  The Jehar drew their swords, Tukul taking the lead, moving to meet the attack, holding his sword in one hand, axe in the other.

  Brina stepped into Corban’s vision, holding a sword in her hand, long and thin.